He gives us a small nod before turning back to rearrange his table. I pivot and stride away, expecting Dante to follow.
A flicker of excitement stirs inside me as we leave the poor man behind. It’s almost comical how naive some people can be—and how easy it is to make them question everything with a single lie.
“So, you know French,” I say, grimacing in surprise. “Good. Not as stupid as you seem, after all.”
I nudge him with my shoulder, and he lets out a weak laugh. “I learned some when I had free time. And I still mix up some words,” he admits, humble as ever.
“Every word is a spark of meaning, and meaning is the fire that lights the world,” I quote, lowering my voice to mimic Cane’s tone. The bastard drilled that line into me from the moment we met. He made me study relentlessly, and whenever I slowed down, he’d repeat it—again and again—until I started dreaming about killing him before he finished the sentence.
“Who said that?” Dante asks, amusement flaring in his tone.
“One wise, brilliant man,” I reply. “Me.”
A smirk curves his lips. He doesn’t believe me—not because I couldn’t come up with something like that, but because I’m usually less poetic and far less annoying, but he doesn’t say anything.
“German?” I ask, glancing at him. “How many do you know? Portuguese? Chinese?”
“Ugh—” he groans, his awkward energy rising with every language I list.
More excitement rushes through me, quick and bright, as I spin around to face him, walking backward. “Liki?”
His eyes widen, his lips part in visible frustration, and I can’t help the hyena-like laugh that bursts from me. “You have no idea about that one, do you?” I tease, smacking his arm lightly before turning to walk beside him. “It’s fine. You’ll get there.” I drop my voice into a mock-patronizing tone. “One day.Maybe.”
“Das werde ich sicherlich. I certainly will,” he says smoothly. The words wipe the grin right off my face—for the millionth time this day—and I stop mid-step, staring at him as he shakes his head with a small smile.
“I only said that to impress you,” he justifies, probably sensing the murderous urge that grows inside me. “My father had German roots, so I know a few phrases. Still, your reaction was worth it. But, my question is… Do you actually know Liki?”
I move my lips from side to side, a futile attempt at control, while my foot bounces unevenly on the pavement, betraying my restlessness. After a moment, I shove my hands into my pockets and pick up the rhythm of our walk again, expecting him to fall into step behind me.
“Sure,” I say, tasting the uncertainty in my voice and hating it. Lying has never been a problem for me, never—yet with him, after the ridiculous amount of fun he’s dumped into my day, it feels like betrayal, like something small and sacred has shifted.
“You and that seller seem to be in a pretty good relationship,” he observes casually, changing the course of the conversation with ease.
I snort. “Well, not anymore. Now, thanks to you, he thinks I’m some kind of pervert.”
He shakes his head slowly, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, light amusement dancing across his features. “Out of the two of us, trust me,” he begins, his voice softening, almost conspiratorial, “Iam the main pervert.”
A fresh wave of heat crashes over me, sudden and relentless, tightening my chest until it feels like I’m trapped under itsweight. I gape at him, caught off guard, the air between us thickening in an almost physical way.
Realizing he’s gone too far, he frowns, his jaw tightening, and turns his face to the side. A rosy blush spreads across his cheeks, subtle but undeniable, and the pull in my core returns with renewed intensity—as if an invisible hand has found its grip, tugging sharply and refusing to let go.
Swallowing hard, I force the tension down, shoving the thoughts away, trying to redirect them toward anything—literally fucking anything—else. My mind claws at the edges of distraction, but the heat lingers, a stubborn echo I can’t quite shake off.
My eyes drift across the sun-bathed stalls until they land on one near the start of the street, its racks filled with vintage clothes we passed before. Clinging to the tiny chance at distraction, I stop and glance at Dante, taking him in from head to toe.
His outfit is painfully dull. I can tell he’s tried—probably influenced by something I said—since he’s traded his usual serious look for something lighter. The cigarette pants give off a touch of old-money charm, but the rest?
Boring.
“Come on,” I say, tilting my head toward the stall. “We’re getting you some decent clothes.”
“Do I really need this?” he asks, feigning weariness, though there’s a spark of thrill in his voice. “I like my clothes.”
“Well,Idon’t,” I reply, biting down on the lollipop until it cracks between my teeth. The sugary shards slice against my tongue, sharp and sweet. “And yes—if you don’t want me wanting to kill you twenty-four seven, then youneedthis.”
He lets out a short laugh as we come closer to the front of the first stall. I shift the shards of candy around my mouth, pressing the sharper ones against my inner cheek until they sting.
A woman with dark, messy curls greets us with a smile so wide her thin lips almost vanish. I don’t reply—my attention is already elsewhere, scanning what hangs in front of us.
